At home you cry;
you think you're trapped.
I'm out here and
there's nowhere to run to.
27 June 1985
Ignorance is bliss. So they say. Only it’s not. Not if you have an imagination. Although I suppose that’s the point. How ignorant do you need to be to be unable to imagine a world different and hopefully better than the one you currently find yourself in? Dogs dream. Rats run through mazes in their sleep. We buy lottery tickets and talk endlessly about what we’ll do with all our winnings. I’d start a publishing company in case you’re interested. That said, I’ve never bought a lottery ticket or even a scratch card in my life. You’ve got to be in it to win it. So they say.
I have a very clear memory attached to this poem. It might even be when I wrote it, crossing the road in my hometown and walking towards the Co-Op. Probably one of those poems that came out of the blue. Well, they all pretty much come out of the blue.
When I was a kid I used to dream about being free from the influence of my parents. I doubt there’s a kid out there who’s not dreamed that. And for a while I was. About five years. And then my wife left me and suddenly I was faced with another level of freedom entirely and what did I do? I ran home to mammy and daddy knowing full well what would follow. Well, I had a good idea.
Jump forward thirty years. Am I free now? Free to fail. Always been free to fail.
Freedom, you see, is not the issue. Truth is I doubt it ever was.